The Boy
by rachel2205
Summary: A oneshot set before Jareth met Sarah. The king is bored and goes looking for someone who can entertain him... A oneshot featuring an OC. Some suggestive content and MM relationship.


_Before Sarah – although it was after, for time is not constant in the world of the Labyrinth – before the world was turned upside down by another, instead of Jareth turning it, and all turned to autumn leaves and silence – before then…_

"Well, laugh," I said, tapping my riding crop impatiently against the side of my throne. Immediately there was a ripple of laughter that passed through the room, a loud enough sound perhaps, but it did not satisfy me. Nor did the inane chittering of my goblins, or their dancing. I even tortured one of them, but his grovelling did not prove in the least entertaining.

I was bored, and I was restless. A dangerous combination. I stood and walked to the window, looking out across my kingdom. The sky raced with grey clouds, and in the distance was a rumble of thunder. The landscape reflected my mood, as it always did. Nothing here existed but for my effort of will, and whilst this could be charming, it made it difficult for me to be surprised. I wanted something unexpected.

I walked from my throne room to the solar, closing the door behind me. I examined my crystals, rolling them between my fingers. There were so many people dreaming... Of course, I cannot access everyone's dreams. There is a certain kind of magic in adolescence, a sense of possibility that adults lose that allow me to influence and enter those dreams. I do not touch the dreams of children, for they do not particularly interest me, although the leaden weight of mythology has left me the tiresome obligation of stealing babies. But it is never for their own sakes, of course. Just to draw out their siblings.

Today, however, I was in no mood for a long game. I wanted something that would entertain and satisfy me quickly. A little light diversion of innocence corrupted. I stroked my crystals, tasting dreams with my fingertips. So many dreams. Some far too sweet and childish; they would take too much work to draw out for what I had in mind. And some already long corrupted; I enjoy a jaded palate only if I had created it.

Then I found it; the right quantity of innocence and darkness. This one had a secret, hidden within himself, buried so deep that it surfaced only in dreams, and those of the most naively erotic kind. They tasted of ripe apricots. I smiled and stepped into the dream.

_In his sleep, the boy turned onto his back in bed, the sheets tangling between his legs. He moved, in an eyeblink, from a sweetly strained dream of his back against a sports locker, watching steam rise from the communal showers, to another place entirely._

I was walking through a maze, the kind I'd seen in documentaries about Hampton Court and stuff like that, the kind of thing my mom loved. It was a strange place, completely silent, and I had this feeling in the pit of my stomach, sort of anxiety and anticipation. Somehow I knew which way to turn each time, almost as if someone were guiding me, and then I was out of the labyrinth and passing through a small town, also completely empty, and filled with weird little houses that seemed patched together rather than built.

Beyond this town lay a castle. The fear blossomed in my belly, but so did the anticipation. I realised I was holding my breath and let it out in a rush, which had the strange effect of making my skin tingle. It was kind of weird to find that I was half-erect. Not that it exactly took much – hey, I'm seventeen – but still, this wasn't the sexiest of scenarios. But all the same, I felt this nervous excitement, and my mouth was dry as I climbed the great steps outside the castle and passed within its gate.

"Hello?" I called, my voice echoing from the stonework, but there was no reply. Again, though, I felt that almost-tug, that sense of being directed, and I walked through the hallways, past rows of silent suits of armour, my footsteps echoing on the paved floor.

At last I came to a stairway, narrow and winding. I began to climb, and it felt like I were climbing forever, the steps twisting and turning, and my breath was hard in my throat. The sense of being driven was incredibly strong now, like a hand at my back, and so I pushed onwards until I had almost despaired of this climb ever ending, until suddenly – it did.

I was in a small room, an antechamber I think they call it, and it looked exactly like an illustration from my book on the Knights of the Round Table, the one my dad thought was a sissy book, even after I showed him the pictures of the knights fighting. Dad didn't hold with fairy stories – or anything with the word "fairy" in it, which was the beginning of my problems. I pushed the thought to the back of my mind and looked around the room again. The walls were made of stone, but I couldn't decide if they were of a silvery or golden hue; they seemed to shift between glances. Sunlight streamed through a small window, one of those perfect pointy-arched types that castles are meant to have, and in front of it stood a table covered with a white cloth. On the table stood a pitcher made of creamy white stone, and beside it was a goblet made of glass, which somehow was the loveliest thing I thought I'd ever seen, which was sort of dumb, as it was just a glass, but it was the truth. I stepped up to the table and looked in the pitcher, which contained water, and suddenly I was the thirstiest I'd been in a long time. I poured the water into the glass, which I picked up gingerly. It was so light I was afraid I'd snap it between my fingers. Then I drank the water, which tasted just like water, and also nothing like it at all. As I put the glass down, I felt myself grow slightly dizzy, like I had drinking beer behind the 7-11, but it was a nicer feeling, you know? I felt my skin tingle and my head was light, and as I looked around the room it was as if everything came into better focus. I reached for the pitcher to pour myself another glass, but found it was empty. Weird. I knew it had been full before I lifted it.

I turned, and noticed something I hadn't seen before I came in – a door standing open. As I stood, wondering how I'd managed to miss not seeing it, I swore I heard someone say my name, so softly that if it weren't something completely familiar to me I might have missed it.

Curious, I stepped forward… and was outside again. In the middle of winter. What the hell? There was snow everywhere, crisp and perfect, and the light was that thin, perfect brightness you only get on a sunny, snowy day. I glanced upwards, expecting azure skies, but instead there was a ceiling, frescoed in golds and blues and flesh tones. Lots and lots of flesh tones, all decorated with the most beautiful men I'd ever seen, and I forgot all about the glass and just stared, feeling heat rise in my cheeks and, okay, in my pants.

Then it began to snow, and I blinked flakes from my eyelids. I looked behind me, and the doorway was almost completely obscured in a veil of falling snow. I walked forward, listening to the crunch of snow beneath my feet and wondering why I wasn't cold, and then my feet struck flagstones and I was in a large room built of stone. Behind me it was still snowing, and in front of me there was a great bed, a four poster, swathed in sheer white curtains, and I could half-see someone behind them. A breeze rippled through the room, moving the curtains, and as I hesitated, unsure of what to do, the figure on the bed laughed.

It was a kind of laugh I'd never heard before, something low and soft and wicked, and it made me hard and trembling all at once. I walked forward cautiously and moved back the curtain, and saw something that made me forget the glass, and the frescoes, and the snow. A man.

His hair was a bleached white shade, but I knew somehow that it wasn't bleached, and it hung in tendrils to his shoulders in a style that should have been dated but wasn't. His eyes were lined with kohl, and he lay on the bed with a kind of insouciant grace, a midnight blue doublet half shrugged on but unbuttoned, and a pair of tights that showed – oh my God.

I swallowed, very loudly, and tightened my grip on the curtain.

* * *

I looked up at the boy. His hair was flecked with snowflakes, and his skin was flushed. He looked so very pretty, and unsure of himself, and a little afraid. Just how I like my boys and girls.

"What am I – Who are you?" he said at last. "What – what do you want from me?" I looked him up and down, taking in the swell at the front of his trousers, and I smiled up at him and purred my reply.

"I want to give you your dreams."

I held out my hand and pulled him down onto the bed with me. He didn't resist, and I could feel him trembling beside me. He was so _ripe_.

"How often have you dreamed of me?" I asked, stroking the side of his face. He shivered harder.

"Never," he said. "Always. I think –" He swallowed. "I think I've been looking for you, but I didn't know it until now."

I nodded and smiled, and pushed him down onto the bed. His dark hair was lovely against the white sheets, as I had known it would be. Delicately I stroked his face, the curve of his cheeks, the line of his jaw, and watched his chest rise and fall rapidly. I leaned in and kissed him lightly, barely parted lips to his, and even that gentle touch made him moan into my mouth. Oh, yes. Ripe.

I kissed him again, letting my tongue stroke his, and my hand moved down his chest and rested against the bulge in his trousers, my fingers stroking his cock through his jeans. His hips bucked towards my hand, and I lifted my face and smiled at him.

"Fear me, love me, do as I say," I said softly, leaving out the last part of the ancient line, because tonight I intended to make no promises. I unzipped his fly and slid my fingers in.

"Yes! Oh, God, yes," said the boy, his eyes rolling back in his head, his lashes fluttering, and I smiled and gave him his reward.

I awoke suddenly, finding I'd rolled on to my belly, and I was glad I had, as I was pretty certain I'd shouted in my sleep and hopefully my pillow had muffled it. I was trembling all over, and the sheet beneath me was soaked.

Wow.

I rolled onto my back and stared up at the ceiling, breathing out with a shaky sigh. _That_ had been intense. I'd never had a dream like that before. Oh, of course I'd had sex dreams. Things I felt guilty about the next day, stuff about kissing our star quarterback or getting a blowjob from my best friend who was the least gay person I knew. It wasn't like I'd never woken up to wet sheets. But this – I didn't even know the _names_ of everything the man had done to me, and I'd watched a fair few pornos. Admittedly not that much gay stuff, because it wasn't like I could walk into my local video store where the owners had known me since I was six and say "hey! I'll take _Hard Cock II: Now Harder_ please". But I had the feeling that some of the stuff might have been extreme even for your average gay skin flick.

And the weirdest thing was, I didn't feel bad about it. Not even a bit.

Grinning, I let my hand move down to my shorts. Because there were one or two things that deserved re-dreaming.


End file.
